Smile
by Watchet
Summary: The Joker had to get his scars somehow. Response to a prompt.


_Disclaimer; I do not own any of the Batman characters, least of all the Joker._

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He hadn't always been what they had labeled as "psychotic," oh no. Once he had been a normal young man, fresh out of college or whatever schooling he had been able to afford, wanting to see the world. And so he had, taking all of the money in his personal accounts, emptying and deleting them, before heading overseas. He knew he wasn't likely to come back, and that was the exciting part. Because even then, he had a taste for excitement, a craving for surprises and maybe just a little bit of chaos to keep things interesting. The smallest hint of risk drew him first to Great Britain, to its heart; London.

And the things he saw and learned there would change him forever.

He tried to stay in the central part of the city, but eventually he had wandered, as expected, away from the part he had grown to know over the past weeks or months—he couldn't exactly remember how long. Time had never been that important to him, because he had all the time in the world, and enough money to last a few years without a job. So he wandered, to the area known as Chelsea; the bohemian quarter, where painters and poets and all the artsy types congregated. There were books—he had always been interested in books. They told stories, and he was a sucker for a good story, especially a morbid horror or gruesome mystery. So he had found a library, and had begun to read up on the history of the borough simply because there was little else of interest to be found.

But what he read was interesting enough. A volume on gangs that used to frequent the area caught his eye, and he was immediately enthralled with the way they sent messages to each other. "The Chelsea Grin," it was called. Slicing a victim's mouth from ear to ear, in a smile. He had always loved seeing people smile, the way their lips curved just right and then their teeth showed from between the soft flaps of flesh just so. Not only did smiling take fewer muscles than frowning, but it was generally a key point to helping one's looks, making them seem appealing to everyone around them. He himself had learned to tell the difference between a true and a fake smile, and prided himself on that ability.

But this. This Chelsea Grin—Glasgow Smile, rather—was so _intriguing_. Once the mouth was cut, the victim would be kicked or stabbed, again and again, opening their mouth wide as screams of pure agony tore the incisions wider and wider until all their heart's life had drained from them, leaving a rigid, grinning corpse to rot in a pool of quickly-cooling blood to be found in an open, unguarded area for all to see. A smile, even in death.

By the time he had finished the chapter, he was grinning so widely that his face hurt.

He quickly gathered up all the books he could find on the subject and spent hours pouring over them, trying to memorize every instance, every example of the precious Smile. _The Man Who Laughs_, one of Victor Hugo's best works, in his opinion. _The Black Dahlia_, based on a true story. _Pet Sematary_, _Pan's Labyrinth_. All of them, he read and watched and _understood_ all of them. It began to consume his mind, keeping him up at night as he just imagined what it would be like. To be able to give someone a gift like that—because yes, to him, it seemed a gift to be able to smile all the time, no matter one's physical condition—would be remarkable. Perhaps that was when the "mental instability," as they called it, had started to surface.

He left London a few days later, renting a car and heading north towards Scotland. He drove all day and night, only stopping for gas and food. By the time he arrived, he was half-delirious with glee, knowing that he was in the place of the Smile's origin. It looked like a normal city—larger than the one he had come from, but still with the businesses and paved roads and, of course, the gangs. He discreetly asked around, gathering information on the local mobs and where they met. Once he knew enough, he was positive he was ready. He didn't know how long he would have to wait, but he was willing. He parked his car in an overgrown lot, keeping the lights off and pushing the seat down low she he could see and not be seen.

On the second day, he was rewarded.

Three men—obviously part of a local gang, based on their size and the glinting knives they carried—approached the square of pavement in front of the turf where his car was seemingly abandoned. They had a woman with them, struggling, screaming. His ears perked, and he inclined his head to get a better look. One of them knocked her to the ground and straddled her waist, the other two hunching down to hold her arms still. She screamed, but nobody was around to hear her, except the men and him. But he wasn't going to ruin this chance, oh no. He had waited, and now he was going to be satisfied. They spoke lowly, in a dialect he couldn't understand. She was begging; he could hear it in the tone of her voice, the hysteria creeping into every garbled word. And then the man on top of her laughed as he pulled out his switchblade again, and he watched from the car, almost in awe, as the thug began to carve from the corners of her lips up towards her ears.

The woman screamed and screamed.

He just watched and smiled, wider and wider with every screech.

She struggled for a good fifteen minutes, and then eventually fell limp. The men rose, brushed their hands on their knees and left, the woman's purse clutched tightly in the leader's hands. After another half hour, he got out of the car and went to her lifeless body, standing at her side and just looking. She was small, looked to be in her early twenties, thin and dressed fashionably. Had probably been an accountant or something boring of the sort. Her eyes were bright green, open wide, staring in abject horror at the star-splattered sky above as her prone form lay there beneath night's blanket, lit only dimly by the flickering street lights yards and yards away. Her hair was blonde, tossed around by the struggle, splayed around her head like a halo. And then he allowed himself to gaze upon the terrible beauty of the Smile upon her face, blood still trickling down her jaw line, some slipping down her petite chin and pooling in the hollow of her throat.

It. Was. Exquisite.

Wonder in his eyes, he got on his knees and brushed honeyed bangs from her forehead, eyes still fixated on the Smile. He felt a grin tug at his own lips, and he let himself give in, feeling the expression warm his features, like the Smile had done for this woman. He was sure that she had never been as stunning as she was now, in death. And it was then that he knew what he was going to _do_.

He left on the next plane to the States, using almost the last of his money. He had squandered it, unplanned, but it had felt good. He had a dozen custom-made suits, fit to his liking, and another entire suitcase full of face paint. The flight landed, and he immediately checked his accounts. They were closed, just as they had been when he had left. He rented another car and drove to his old home; it had been sold, to a family of four, just as he had thought it would be. He forged a death certificate and convinced a family doctor to sign it, claiming that he wanted to restart his life. And then, once all of that was finished, he went to the doctor's office again, at night. It was the only medical facility he had ever been to—he had never been sick enough for a hospital. It was his first act of arson, and he still grinned as he watched the small building go up in flames, taking all the medical histories inside—including his own—with it.

There was a big city nearby, as big as Glasgow. Gotham. It even began with a "G" as well. That was where he wanted to be when it happened. When he did it. He rented a room in the first motel he came to, carrying nothing but the two suitcases he had brought back with him from Europe, each holding dozens and dozens of knives that he had bought with the rest of his money, all in cash. He took one—it was his favorite, and he had named it Sally, after the girl because that was what he'd imagined her name might have been—and held it up as he looked at himself in the mirror of the bathroom.

He smiled.


End file.
